


Beauty and the Beast

by LadyOfGlencairn



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfGlencairn/pseuds/LadyOfGlencairn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot: Gisla hates Rollo at first sight, but when two people are thrown together, perhaps they can learn to find love. Written from Gisla's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty and the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I've loved Rollo since season 1 of Vikings and always hoped that the writer's would develop his story. I'm so excited to know what will eventually happen between him and Gisla and because I'm too impatient to wait, I've decided to make it up for myself. What follows is a series of scenes that lead to Gisla realising that Rollo is her destiny. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

Princess Gisla hated him from the moment she laid eyes upon him. Standing on the castle ramparts she saw him fighting, bare chested and splattered with Frankish blood, like a man possessed. Disgust and revulsion welled up inside her as she watched the pagan hack and slice his way up the stone edifice of the castle walls, performing feats no mortal being should be capable of, and yet he continued to defy the odds with a power and ferocity she'd never before seen rivalled.

Had he been a Parisian soldier and a civilised Christian, she might have admired his skill and boundless reserves of strength. But as a heathen and a savage who did not believe in the true divinity of God, and as a consequence had no soul, he had nothing but her disdain and loathing.

He and his kind would seek to pillage and plunder her beloved Paris, taking what was not theirs and killing all those who dared to stand in their path. And her father, spineless and weak, too afraid to stand up to their bullying, would rather sell her off in chains than fight like a man. Gisla realised that no matter how she begged and pleaded, he would not change his mind. He had offered her hand in marriage to the beast before her without so much as a consultation.

How she resented being born a woman. Had she been a man instead, she would gladly have done what her father could not. She would have wielded a sword with pride and stood at the front of the battle lines to defend her country and its people against these opportunists. But because he father was a feeble coward, she was being forced into Holy Matrimony with a savage so that her parent could, in turn, secure Frankia's safety against King Ragnar.

"Rollo. Welcome," her father said. He gestured towards her. "This is my daughter… Gisla."

She stood swiftly, anger and repulsion forcing her to speak. "Whatever my father says, I am not marrying this animal. I am a Princess of the blood, not a cheap whore. I would rather be burned alive than suffer this…thing, to so much as lay a hand on me. He is a filthy pagan, and therefore he has no soul. He is worse than the beasts of the field. I would rather my virginity and virtue to the vilest dog than to this piece of warm meat. He disgusts me. He makes me want to vomit."

Gisla felt a small measure of satisfaction as she stood before the pagan, telling him in no uncertain terms how she much she abhorred him. After all, one did not have to understand a language to know when you've been insulted. Scathing edict delivered, she sat back down and dared the Northman to retaliate, to show his true nature. Only, he didn't and as such her sense of vindication was short-lived.

Much to her dismay, he seemed amused, charmed even, by her audacity. The sight of his wide grin, preceded by a vulgar attempt at a greeting, infuriated her. How dare he stand there and feign courtesy and diplomacy? Loathing and hatred blurred into one as she watched him preening, clearly proud of himself.

On her feet once more she glared at her father. "I cannot endure this humiliation a moment longer," she declared. "You stay here and keep company with this band of savages, but I will not."

Gisla didn't wait for his answer. Head held high, she marched past her country's invaders and out of the throne room, ignoring the way the pagan warrior's eyes trailed after her the entire time.

* * *

A week later, Gisla, still furious with her father, was partaking in her morning repast in solitude when the Emperor strolled in. "A date had been set for the marriage ceremony," he said without preamble. "I suggest you ready yourself, my daughter."

She stared at him, impassive. Her fate had been sealed the moment the Northmen had invaded Paris. While she loved her father, she resented his weakness. They were descendants of Charlemagne, a great military tactician and leader, but one would never guess when looking at their present Emperor. He was an insipid old man, more in awe of the achievements of his ancestor than keen to emulate it.

"I hope you do not live to regret your choice to sell me into barbarism and servitude, Father. How do you know that this…Rollo," she spat, uttering the name with all the contempt she could muster, "after you've given him a title, lands and wealth,  _your only remaining daughter_ , won't betray you to his brother anyway?"

Her father walked towards the table, his hands behind his back. "I don't, of course. Nothing can ever be certain. But if this keeps Frankia safe from the Northern King's ambitions, then I am willing to share a small part of my Kingdom with those who would stand with us. It is, after all, a small price to pay."

Gisla placed her cutlery down on the table with a calm she did not feel. Inside she was seething, fury roiling inside her like a tempest, wanting to rail against him for his cowardice and demand that he do the right thing and fight. But she knew it would come to nothing.

"So how long do I have before I am bound to that savage in Holy Matrimony? A day? Two?"

Her father smiled at her wanly. "Six weeks."

Gisla couldn't hide her derision. "Why bother to negotiate so much time, Father? I assure you, I will not grow accustomed to the idea."

Her father shrugged, ignoring her disrespect. "You have the Northman to thank for that. It was his special request."

With those words, the Emperor left, leaving Gisla gaping after him. Why would the pagan want to wait? Why not get it over with? Surely he was eager to get his filthy paws on their Frankish coin, to lay claim to the lands her father had promised him… to rid her of her virtue? She shuddered at the thought. There had to be a reason for this delay. She just didn't know what it could possibly be.

* * *

On her way back from morning mass some weeks later, Gisla rounded a corner en route to her chambers, when she almost bumped straight into her betrothed in one of the castle's drafty stone corridors. The Wanderer was standing at his side. It was the first time she'd seen Rollo since they'd been formally introduced and in truth, not much about him had changed.

He was still a large hulk of a man, tall and broad shouldered, his thick brown hair hanging loose past his shoulders and down his back. He had a long face, prominent nose, high forehead and deep-set eyes framed by thick brows. His beard, heavy and unkept, shaded the lower half of his face, adding to his filthy, uncivilised appearance.

Her stomach quivering with distaste, she stared at his face, faint cuts and bruises still evident as proof of his recent attempts to conquer her city. How she longed to see him gone, banished to the far reaches of the earth where she would never have to lay eyes upon him again.

Rollo, she noted, seemed only surprised to see her, none of her own silent hostility and animosity towards him registering in his eyes as he gazed at her.

"Princess Gisla," exclaimed the Wanderer. He bowed low and glanced encouragingly at his heathen commander.

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the drifter before taking a step to move on. She would not spend a second more than absolutely necessary in the company of these animals.

"I…hope…you…good," said Rollo, in a deep, stammering voice.

Surprise made Gisla's brows arch, her mouth dropping open as she watched him glance from her to the Wanderer, uncertain. So, he was attempting to learn her language. She'd thought him a dumb brute, a beast only capable of wielding an axe on the battlefield, but perhaps she'd been too quick to judge.

Narrowing her eyes, she wondered if she'd underestimated him. Perhaps there was some cunning and intellect behind the barbaric façade after all. The thought made a bubble of laughter well up within her. No. God would not waste the gift of genius on a non-believer. So the true question was, was this beast before her merely a dumb brute or a shrewd politician?

"As well as can be, considering that my father wishes to make me your whore," she responded with contempt.

Gisla heard the audible gasp from her ladies standing a few paces behind her. No doubt they thought her conduct shocking, but she didn't care.

Rollo was looking at the Wanderer, her words obviously too rapid for him to follow. Gisla raised a brow expectantly, waiting for Rollo's companion to translate her words. It annoyed her that he seemed to waiver, as though he were trying to find synonyms to soften her meaning.

"Tell him exactly what I said," she ordered.

The Wanderer gave her a pitiful smile before doing as she asked. When Rollo's face darkened with anger, Gisla knew he understood perfectly. Her shoulders squared as she prepared to trade insults. She knew it should be beneath her to resort to such childish behaviour, but when a woman in her position had nothing with which to defend herself other than the blade of her tongue, she was determined to make full use of it.

Rollo turned to face her, his forehead furrowed as he concentrated. "You…princess…not the…whore-"

The Wanderer interceded. "My whore. Not  _my_  whore."

Glaring at him, Rollo waved a hand dismissively, his gaze returning to fix on hers. "I…be…good…wife."

At Rollo's faux pas, the Wanderer groaned, his head dropping into his hands.

Gisla stared, unable to believe that this brute seemed to care more about correcting her assumptions about what her role in his life would be than the obvious disrespect she kept hurling at him. Despite his words, she already knew all about the type of life that awaited her as his  _object_ , his toy, his pawn. No doubt she'd be subjected to his barbaric practices and treated with no more consideration than a slave forced to share the master's bed. Gisla would rather die than allow him to lay a hand upon her.

"You are a filthy, soulless heathen and I will marry you because I have no choice. But know this – I will never submit to you. I will never allow you to touch me. I would rather die."

Her eyes blazing with repugnance, she waited until the Wanderer had translated her last word before whirling around and heading back towards the chapel. Only more time spent in prayer and reflection would cool the fire of hatred burning in her heart.

Unknown to her, Rollo gazed after her, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

* * *

As far as revelations went, the biggest one was the shocking discovery that Rollo was indeed a Christian. According to the Wanderer, he had been baptised some years before in England, although he had never formally changed his name. The knowledge had been a blow to Gisla, for she had been determined to martyr herself before allowing the pagan to defile her body. God would not have viewed her sacrifice as sinful if she was forced to marry a man who did not believe in the true religion. However, should she follow through with her plan knowing that her husband was of the Christian faith, then God would surely not forgive her act of suicide.

And so she was trapped, her one and only reprieve having been wrenched away from her, leaving her to face the sobering reality of what her future would be. As such, the days leading up to her wedding were interminable. Gisla hadn't had any more encounters with the animal she would soon call husband, though she had caught fleeting glimpses of him in the castle with her father and Count Odo. According to her ladies, his command of the Frankish language was improving in leaps and bounds. The news surprised her, hating to admit to herself that he wasn't as foolish as he looked. Soon he would be a Duke, a titled man of means. If he had any hope of running his estate, it stood to reason that he would need to learn the language of his subjects. However, it still galled her to know that he wasn't failing miserably at it.

Standing in front of the priest on her wedding day, Gisla was acutely aware of the towering beast beside her. Though perhaps, had she been in a more charitable mood, she would have confessed that he didn't look as much like a beast as he had before. In lieu of their nuptials he'd undergone a bit of a transformation. The biggest change had been his hair, no longer long, but cut much shorter so that it curled into the nape of his neck in soft waves. Gone was the dishevelled beard and in its stead was a neatly trimmed version that one of her ladies had declared made him look younger and more handsome. At the mere mention of his looks, Gisla had snapped at the girl, angry that everyone around her seemed to be accepting his presence in their lives without protest. A few cosmetic improvements did not change who he was – a pagan pillager, an interloper, a bloodthirsty killer.

His mere presence angered her, made her want seize the sabre dangling from the side of one of Count Odo's men and plunge it deep into his vile heart. The object of her rancor spent the majority of the service glancing from her to the priest, though what he was looking for she couldn't be sure. She kept her gaze locked firmly on the large cross peeking out over the top of the priest's head. She had to believe that God had a hand in this and that as such, she needed to be patient as she waited for His will to unfold.

Once the formalities concluded, the wedding feast was held in the castle's large banquet hall. Tables were laden with food and wine for their guests to enjoy. Though the only ones having a good time seemed to be the Northmen. Their table manners were as crude as their company, Gisla thought, as she watched them in abhorrence. They ate with their hands, dipping their fingers into one dish after another before stuffing their mouths with food. This of course didn't stop them from talking and laughing uproariously, with morsels of bread, meat and pastries often flying out of their mouths and landing on a neighbour's plate.

Shuddering with disgust, she turned away only to capture her father's knowing eye. Shrugging, he raised his wine goblet in salute before draining its contents.

Beside her, her husband asked, "Not hungry?"

She turned her frosty stare in his direction. She'd been avoiding talking to him since the ceremony had ended. Rollo pointed to her plate which was still untouched.

"You…not eat."

"I find the company," she said, directing her gaze towards the barbarians feasting before her, "has made me a little queasy."

Instead of her words angering him, he laughed, the sound bold and robust. "You have forgive…Princess. They…not used…company of…royalty."

Her stomach roiled as she continued to watch them. "And yet your brother is a King."

Rollo stiffened and she glanced at him, for once intrigued. He'd betrayed his own kind by marrying her and accepting her father's terms.

"Vikings not…stand…on..." He struggled for the word. "Ceremony?"

"That I can believe," she replied, disgusted. "Tell me, why have you agreed to do this? To betray  _your_ King?"

Looking down into his plate, Rollo toyed with his fork. "It was…destiny."

Gisla raised a brow mockingly. "You call betraying your brother and King, fate?"

He shrugged. "You not…understand."

"All I know is that a man who could so easily turn his back on his own flesh and blood is not someone worth trusting."

He turned to look at her. "Your father…did same…to you."

Gisla reared back as if he'd slapped her. The pity she saw in his eyes was more than she could endure at that moment. How dare this beast compare his actions to her father's? They were not the same men. Their situations were completely different.

So why then did his words pierce her heart?

Having had enough, Gisla excused herself from the table and exited the banquet hall, heading instead to the chapel. She could not sit there and pretend she wasn't offended by the very sight of these philistines. And now their leader was her husband, joined to her in a marriage blessed before God.

Tomorrow they would leave for Normandy, the place she would call home henceforth and she would leave behind everything she'd ever known – her father, her friends, her beloved Paris.

Kneeling at the altar, she vowed never to cower in the face of fear and uncertainty. Her life had been placed on this path and wherever it may lead, she would not show any weakness. She was not her father's daughter, she was Charlemagne's great granddaughter and she would make him and all of Paris proud. She would remain strong, even if it killed her.

"Your Highness?" a soft voice came from behind.

It was one of her maids. "Yes?"

"It is time."

Taking a deep breath, Gisla swallowed the bile that rose at the back of her throat at the thought of what lay ahead. She was a Princess of the blood and she could endure anything.

Some time later, she entered the bedchamber that had been readied for her wedding night, dressed simply in a soft, silk nightgown and matching wrap. Her groom was already there, still fully dressed and looking dazed and confused as their guests steered them towards the large bed, waiting for each of them to climb on top. Body rigid, she stopped herself from cringing as she felt the mattress depress beneath the weight of Rollo's body. Soon thereafter, everyone departed and they were left alone.

Taking a deep breath, Gisla waited.

And waited.

Not sure what to expect, she moved her head slightly to the side and glanced at the man beside her. He was simply staring at the ceiling.

Confused, she looked away again, her hands fisting at her sides, unsure of whether she wanted to rejoice in her good fortune or bemoan her humiliation. Did he not know that it would shame her if their marriage was not consummated? Yet by the same token she was relieved that he was not forcing himself upon her…yet.

"I wish you would be done with it," she declared icily, still smarting from his earlier words.

Out of her periphery she could see Rollo turn his head to look at her. "Sleep, Princess," was all he said.

Gisla felt relief and strangely anger too, the latter making her retort slowly so she could be sure he understood her, "I would rather you finished it. I do not wish to spend every night hereafter wondering when you'll lay your dirty hands on me."

Rollo laughed, the sound so unexpected that she glanced at him again. His head was closer to hers than she'd thought. His eyes, a light green, was alight with mirth, the sight angering her further. "I not want…to force. When you ready…." His voice trailed off.

She glared at him. "Is this some kind of trick? Are you hoping to subdue me? Lull me into a false sense of security? I assure you, it will not work."

Her husband merely shrugged, indicating that he'd probably missed the majority of what she'd said. "Sleep," he reiterated, turning back to look at the ceiling.

Shocked, but not waiting for him to change his mind, Gisla twisted away from him before slipping under the covers and curling up into a ball. "Fool," she muttered. "I won't ever be ready."

As she drifted off to sleep, she could still hear Rollo's quiet chuckle echoing in her dreams.

* * *

They'd been on the road to Normandy for only a week when Gisla was ready to pull her hair out in frustration. There was only so much she could sew or read or gaze out of the carriage window before she started to feel as though she was losing her mind. Perhaps the worst torture of all was getting to know her new husband. The close confines of the carriage made for many hours of conversation as they neared the end of each day. Just before they set-up camp each night, Rollo would climb into the carriage to practice his vocabulary with the Wanderer. The two had become joined at the hip since her husband had taken a keen interest in continuing his study of Frankish culture and language. Try as she might to drown out the sound of their words, it proved to be an impossibility. Many times Rollo tried to engage her, but she showed no interest despite her growing curiosity about him.

She found it easier when he was outside riding amongst his men; less distracting. Often she could hear his laughter or his voice uttering strange words in an unfamiliar tongue, the sound carrying on the wind and settling about her shoulders like an uncomfortably heavy cloak.

He was nothing like she'd initially imagined him to be. While at times she caught glimpses of the man who'd stormed her father's castle, (she still believed him capable of transforming into that beast at a moment's notice), by and large, Rollo appeared relaxed and in good spirits as he drank and joked with his men. Yet again, she found herself struck by how quickly he was learning, how his mind seemed to soak up information. It was a mere ten weeks since they'd been introduced and he knew far more about her and her people than she did about him. The thought did cause a slight twinge of shame, even though she fought to bury the sentiment. He was still a pagan despite his baptism, and as such, he did not deserve her consideration.

Later that evening, long after they'd made camp for the night and everyone had settled down, Rollo stepped closer and dropped another fur across her shivering shoulders. It was an act of kindness, one of many small gestures he'd made towards her over the course of the past week. Since his vow not to lay a hand on her until she asked him to, Rollo had stuck to his word. Every night he saw her comfortably situated before he settled down to sleep nearby. He never encroached on her space, never touched her in any way that made her uncomfortable or asked for anything more than she was willing to give. For that at least, Gisla realised, perhaps he did deserve  _some_  measure of consideration.

The following morning, the men worked quickly to dismantle their camp. Rollo directed her and the single maid she'd brought along with her to a shaded part of the river where they could perform their ablutions in relative seclusion. It occurred to her to thank him, but before she could, he'd already walked away.

Finishing up, they made their way back to the carriage. A group of men who she'd seen in her husband's company were standing beside the door.

To the Wanderer Gisla said, "Please ask them to remove the top trunk. There are some things I would like to place inside."

He dutifully interpreted her request only for it to be met with guffaws. Clearly they did not think her word as good as her husbands. Feeling her hackles rise, Gisla was about to give them a thorough tongue lashing when Rollo appeared, asking one of his men what they were laughing about. Expecting him to follow suit, she was stunned when he grabbed the teller by the scruff of his neck and muttered some harsh words to him and the rest of the men in their guttural language. With eyes close to popping out of his head, the young Northman nodded rapidly before Rollo dropped him unceremoniously, watching as he sagged pitifully against the carriage wheel.

"I'm sorry," Rollo said to Gisla. "Not happen…again." Leaving her with an assurance she did not fully understand, he walked away, his fur coat billowing behind him in the chilly breeze.

"What happened?" she asked the Wanderer as the trunk she'd requested was hastily retrieved.

"The Duke told them that you were his wife and that they should show you the utmost respect if they wished to remain alive."

Surprised, Gisla looked to where her husband was readying his horse. "I don't understand. Why would he do that? Don't the Northerners subjugate their women?"

The Wanderer shook his head emphatically. "Not at all, Your Highness. In fact, Viking women have more rights than English or even Frankish women."

Intrigued, Gisla asked, "How so?"

"Did you not see how the womanfolk fought alongside the men to conquer Paris? Shield maidens, and indeed all Viking women, are highly respected and prized by their men." He, too, looked at Rollo. "According to their culture, men and women are equal in all things."

Shocked, Gisla reflected on what her husband had just done for her. Because she was not one of them, the men had thought to treat her differently. By setting them straight and claiming her as his equal, he'd given her absolute power and authority, independent from him. More than she might ever have had if she'd married Count Odo, she realised suddenly.

"Can I ask you something else?" she asked, remembering a conversation she'd had with Rollo on their wedding day.

The Wanderer waited expectantly.

"I once asked Rollo why he was betraying his brother. He said it was destiny. Do you know what that means?"

Shaking his head, the Wanderer replied, "Not really, Your Highness. But I will say that Northmen are very superstitious. In their village of Kattegat, there is a Seer. He is a wise man who can see into the future. Perhaps he told Rollo something that influenced his decision."

A wise man who could see into the future? Gisla shook her head as she settled back into the carriage. She would never understand these pagans and their beliefs, but if her husband was making an attempt to get to know her culture and traditions, then perhaps she ought to do the same. She could never believe in them, never partake in them, or even place any significance or meaning in them, but if she hoped to make a life amongst these people, it would help to know what she was in for.

Perhaps she, too, should spend more time with the Wanderer.

* * *

Another week passed before they eventually reached Normandy and the fortified holdings that would serve as her new home. The countryside was beautiful; lush and green, the salty freshness of the ocean a constant scent that carried on the breeze. The people were friendly and welcoming and eager to please their new rulers. Gisla realised that they trusted their Princess and as such, they would place their faith in her choice of husband. If only it were that simple for her.

Rollo left the household duties completely in her hands. For the most part she didn't think he cared much about domestic duties and as such he didn't interfere at all. So she took it upon herself to hire help from the local village and went about the task of setting her home to rights.

Most days, as she directed the servants and saw to the construction of a new church, she'd catch glimpses of Rollo outside in the courtyard. Since their arrival he'd been hard at work, training with his men daily and for hours on end. She knew he was preparing for the coming battle in the spring and as she listened to the constant clink of steel to steel combat, she yearned to pick up a sword, to feel for herself the power it could wield.

True to the Wanderer's words, the Viking women trained alongside the men, their skill and proficiency equal to, and sometimes even better, than their male counterparts. Gisla secretly envied their freedom, longing to participate as well, but not knowing how her interest would be perceived by her husband or his people.

That night when Rollo came to their chamber, for despite their chaste sleeping arrangements, they'd resumed sharing a bed once they'd reached Normandy, Gisla wondered how she might broach the subject. Sitting up while she pretended to read, she covertly watched as her husband prepared for bed. The Northmen were not ashamed of their bodies, nor were they coy about their desires. Many times she'd stumbled upon men and women engaged in the sexual act, not at all concerned that she'd seen them. When she'd mustered the courage to tell Rollo of her disapproval, he'd laughed at her, confused by her ire. He'd said it was a natural expression of affection and that she should get used to it.

He, too, made no attempt to hide his nudity from her and had frowned at her mortification the first time he'd strolled past her naked as the day he'd been born. Feeling strangely affected by the site of his bared skin and not knowing how to handle her newfound fascination, she'd gone on the defensive, hurling insults at him only to find her words disregarded, having had no impact at all. Not that her reaction had made any difference. Rollo had merely told her that God would not have created man only to have them be ashamed of their physical form. She'd snorted at his words, thinking him the last person on earth qualified to comment on a God he knew nothing about.

However, as time passed and she became accustomed to his habits, Gisla found herself watching him when he wasn't aware of it, her mind subconsciously comparing his physicality to that of other men, like Count Odo. Where Rollo was tall, his body well toned and free of any excess bulk, the Count was considerably less fastidious about maintaining an exercise regime. His thick waist and round face was a clear indication that he liked his food and drink far more than he did a trim figure.

Gisla wasn't blind, she knew that her husband was admired amongst the women in the village. She heard the servants talking when they thought she wasn't around, heard their whispers about his broad shoulders and strong arms and their belief in her immunity to it. Their gossip irked her, particularly since she had been unaffected at first, but lately, it shamed her to admit that she wasn't entirely invulnerable to Rollo's masculine appeal. She constantly caught herself staring at him, feeling her face grow warm before she finally managed to shake herself free of his magnetic allure. This peculiar and unwanted attraction she was starting to feel towards him was annoying and inconvenient - particularly since he made her aware of her own femininity in a way no one else ever had. But try as she might, she couldn't shake it. Gisla was fully aware that even though they were married, Rollo did not belong to her. The truth was that if he chose to take another woman as his mistress, she'd welcome it. Wouldn't she? Though all of a sudden the thought of him and some faceless woman engaged in the lustful acts she'd witnessed, made her feel somewhat ill.

And so, for the umpteenth time, Gisla couldn't stop herself from watching her husband, her eyes drawn to the alien markings on his flesh as he sat on the edge of the bed removing his boots. She'd have to remember to ask the Wanderer about those tattoos, she thought, immensely curious. Rollo had already discarded his shirt, the smooth skin of his back completely bared to her.

"If you have…answer, you'd best ask," he said, surprising her. While his command of the Frankish language was certainly coming along, he tended to make mistakes from time to time.

"Question," she corrected automatically.

Amused, he turned to look at her across his shoulder. "Do you have one?" he asked slowly.

Gisla closed her book and cleared her throat. "The Wanderer told me that Norse women fight alongside the men."

He turned slightly towards her. "Yes. They're called…" He frowned, searching for the word. Looking around the room, he spotted his round shield resting against the wall. He pointed to it.

"Shield?" Gisla offered, already familiar with the term, but willing to help him learn. She didn't know when she'd gone from resenting him entirely to willingly offering her assistance.

He nodded, his lips curling upward in gratitude. "Shield maidens."

Taking a deep breath, she gazed at him directly, ignoring the way her belly fluttered at his smile. "Would you teach me? To fight with a sword?"

Rollo looked taken aback momentarily and then his face split into a wide grin. "You want to…fight?"

Hating the feeling of vulnerability that crept over her, Gisla tensed, becoming defensive. "I want to know how to protect myself should I ever need to fight off the unwanted attentions of a savage."

The second the words were out, she regretted them. Her guilt only mounted when she watched the light that had brightened his eyes moments before, fade completely. While she still believed Rollo and his kind to be heathens, he had been nothing but generous towards her. Her insult was unwarranted and unnecessarily cruel.

As he turned away from her, Gisla's mouth opened, but no words were forthcoming.

After a few tense moments, the only sound to be heard his boots as they hit the floor, Rollo said, "If you want learn…be ready for sunrise."

 _At_ sunrise _,_  she silently corrected, but thought it best not to say out loud.

Excitement unfurling in her belly, she turned away from her husband and curled onto her side. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes and attempted to sleep. Oblivion eluded her though, her mind replaying the look on Rollo's face when she'd called him a savage. Listening to the steady sound of his breathing beside her, a sure indication that he'd fallen asleep, Gisla slowly turned towards him, studying his profile in the moonlight.

She wished with all her heart that she could take back her harsh words. His treatment of her was nothing like she'd expected and for a long time she'd kept her guard up, waiting for the day when he revealed his true intentions. Then, as time passed, she came to realise that Rollo was exactly what he claimed to be and he made no apologies for it. His gentleness and his patience made her uncomfortable and she didn't know how to respond to it. Her default reaction was to lash out at him, to insult and humiliate him. But it wasn't fair, particularly since he did not deserve that treatment. Had he been the punishing husband she'd been expecting, she would have felt more at ease than having to navigate through the confusion she felt whenever she spied the warmth in his green eyes when she caught him gazing at her.

With his beard trimmed and long hair gone, he did look more civilised, more…handsome, she thought, her eyes tracing his features now relaxed in sleep. Though exactly when she'd started to think of him as attractive, she didn't know. The knowledge that she found him appealing was baffling and distressing at the same time. She did not want her emotions getting in the way of her duty to Frankia, to its people.

But the longer Gisla watched him, the guiltier she felt. "I'm sorry," she eventually whispered into the dark, grateful that he was asleep and unable to hear her.

Sighing, she placed her hands under her cheek and closed her eyes. Things had been a lot simpler and less complicated before she'd taken an interest in her Viking husband.

In the darkness, a sleeping bear's lips curled softly. They were making progress.

* * *

Just before dawn the following morning, Gisla was up and ready. Dressed in one of her simpler gowns, she followed Rollo out into the courtyard.

Standing across from her, he planted two swords in the ground, one larger than the other, the hilt intricately embroidered.

It was early and though the servants were rising, no one would disturb them for at least another hour. Knowing this, Gisla was surprised to see the Wanderer striding towards them.

Glancing at Rollo questioningly, he shrugged. "I am still...learning your…mouth?" He seemed unsure of his choice of word. At her silence, he continued, "In matters of…life and death…better to…explain correct."

Her lips twitching at his mistake, Gisla nodded at their interpreter. He took up position halfway between her and Rollo, his body well out of reach of any wayward blade.

Rollo spoke in his native tongue and allowed the Wanderer to relay his words to her.

"First rule, relax. It is normal to experience a certain level of tension in battle, but if you do not remain calm, keep your muscles supple and loose and regulate your breathing, it will compromise your speed. I do not need to tell you that this can be fatal."

Gisla nodded, consciously letting the tension drain from her shoulders. She wanted this, wanted to learn to defend herself and others if necessary.

"Good," Rollo said, with approval, then looked at the Wanderer again to translate his ensuing words. "Next, you must be able to lift your weapon. Do not choose to fight with an object that you cannot wield successfully. Swords come in all sizes. It's important to find the one that's right for you."

Gesturing for her to lift the smaller sword from the ground, Rollo effortlessly followed suit.

Grasping the hilt, Gisla lifted. It was heavier than it looked, but that didn't put her off. If anything, she relished the challenge, loved the feel of her muscles as they contracted and relaxed as she strove to find her equilibrium.

Planting his blade back in the sand, Rollo walked over to stand behind her, placing his hands on her hips. His touch was heavy, foreign, but not at all unpleasant. In fact, she rather liked the feeling. Her mouth inexplicably dry, she strove to pay attention to his words.

"Remember to maintain your balance; it's of utmost importance. Always keep your feet shoulder width apart, even when you're moving." Gisla turned her head slightly to look at him, realising that his mouth was inches from hers. When their eyes connected, she felt that familiar yet confusing flutter in her belly that had become the norm in recent weeks whenever she was around her husband.

When Rollo's eyes dipped to her lips, her heart slammed against her ribs at the undisguised heat in his gaze. Relieved and simultaneously disappointed when he broke the connection, Gisla surreptitiously watched him as he stepped away to retrieve his sword, the imprint of his hands on her hips still lingering.

His eyes twinkling, Rollo lifted his weapon. "Let us begin."

* * *

After that first morning, Rollo and Gisla met every morning thereafter, with the exception of Sundays, which she always spent in devotion to God. By the end of the first month, Rollo believed she was ready to engage in light combat with some of the shield maidens she'd seen training with his men. By the end of the second, she'd started winning swordfights. Her husband proved to be a skilled and capable teacher and Gisla was learning to trust his guidance implicitly, on and off the training field.

Her newfound abilities made her confidence soar, even as she started noting the subtle changes in her body. She was growing stronger, her arms holding the sword easier and for longer periods before she tired, the core muscles of her stomach and legs firming and strengthening over time.

So, too, were the tentative bonds of friendship, and something more - a strange, inexplicable tension - that developed between her and Rollo. She now found it easier now to talk to him, to approach him, to ask him questions. Like the Wanderer had told her about Viking culture, Rollo treated her as an equal, never condescending to her or disregarding her opinions. Under their mutual rule, their community thrived and prospered, its success a source of immense pride to both of them. Even her relationship with his people was improving. Once they saw her willingness to fight and then noted her aptitude and improvements over time, their respect for her grew. So did hers for them. They were certainly different to her, and there was a definite lack of refinement in their manner and discourse, but they were hard working people and since Rollo had made her status in his life clear, their loyalty towards her had been absolute.

Early one afternoon Gisla was making her way down to the kitchen to leave some instructions for the cook when she heard the now familiar sound of Rollo's laughter wafting towards her from the courtyard below. Intrigued, she made her way closer to a nearby window and peeked down. Her husband was sparring playfully with some of the village children. Their weapons were lengths of wood that had been fashioned into short swords. There were about five boys and two girls, their ages varying from around three to seven, their identical looks of glee as Rollo ducked and dived under their childish attempts to main him, unmistakable.

Fascinated, Gisla watched as Rollo picked the two girls up, one under each arm, and ran around the square with them, the other children following closely behind. Their collective peels of laughter were infectious and before she could help it, she felt a giggle bubble up inside her and spill forth, filling the stone corridor with sound. The unexpectedness of her pleasure startled her, frightened her. Sobering, she continued to stare as her husband set the children back down, bending before one of the little girls to wipe a speck of dirt from her cheek. The sight of him, this large, imposing man, behaving so tenderly towards someone so innocent and vulnerable, stirred an unnamed emotion within her breast, calling to a desire she kept buried deep down within her. Watching as the children scampered off with Rollo watching their progress, Gisla was alarmed when he suddenly looked up in her direction. With a gasp, she stepped to the side, hiding in the shadows before resuming her covert observation. For some reason she didn't want him to see her there, to know she'd been watching him. Rollo peered at the window through narrowed eyes for a moment longer before shaking his head and turning away, his protracted stride taking him in the direction of the stables.

Stepping away from the wall, Gisla resumed her journey to the kitchen. She hadn't known that Rollo was fond of children. For some reason, the thought had never even crossed her mind and now that she'd seen him partaking in the children's guileless antics, she couldn't seem to rid herself of the rousing image. She knew that he had nephews, but she didn't know anything about his relationship with them and had assumed that they weren't close considering his betrayal. Perhaps that wasn't true.

Perhaps, she thought as she nodded at one of the servants who curtsied hastily, there was a lot about her husband that wasn't true. She didn't question why the thought warmed her from the top of her head to the very tips of her toes.

* * *

Gisla's struggle with her feelings for Rollo came to a head a few days later when Count Odo sent an envoy requesting her husband's presence in Paris. With winter drawing to a close, spring would soon be upon them. It was time to talk strategy for the upcoming clash with Rollo's brother, King Ragnar.

Disappointed that the Count had deliberately excluded her from the communication, Gisla felt her old resentment at being treated as nothing more than a feeble woman rushing to the surface. Since her marriage, she'd heard very little from her father or his right hand man. Both of them had practically fed her to the dogs, without a care as to whether she would survive it. But survive it, she had. In fact, she was flourishing.

Now, she, the only one who'd had a real care for Paris and its people the first time the Northerners had raided their city, was being deliberately side-lined because she was a wife.

Bitter and hurt, she went storming in the direction of the stables. She knew Rollo's routine by heart and mid-afternoon was usually the time he returned from his ride through the village.

"I hear you've been summoned to Paris," she stated without prelude. He was standing to the side of his horse, running a soothing hand down the animal's flank.

"There are plans to be made," he agreed, eyeing her speculatively.

Gisla folded her arms across her chest. "How long for?"

"Two weeks at best. The journey will be quicker without all the baggage we brought the last time."

"You mean without  _me_." Inexplicably, irrational tears burned at the back of her throat. Gisla hated her weakness. She'd promised herself that she'd never reveal any flaw that this man could exploit. But she felt hurt and betrayed and try as she might, she couldn't suppress it. If anyone had told her when she'd married Rollo that there would come a time when his actions would affect her emotions, she would have cursed their ignorance. She was supposed to hate him. Only she didn't. It was all so confusing.

Rollo must have heard the crack in her voice because he frowned, walking over to stand in front of her. He was so tall, she knew she'd have to crane her neck right back to look at him. But she couldn't. She could smell him though, a combination of the fresh salty breeze, a light tang of sweat and the not entirely unpleasant masculine scent that was uniquely his.

"What are you talking about?" he whispered, confused, the chilly draft wafting through the open stable door causing the ends of his heavy cloak to flutter slightly.

"You're planning on going back to Paris, to  _my_  city, to discuss its future without me!" Gisla cried. "Whatever happened to Viking men valuing their women as equals? Were those just words to placate a foolish princess? Did you mean none of it?" Her anger was surfacing now, mingling with her disappointment.

Rollo was silent for a moment before he reached out a finger and slowly lifted her chin. She clamped her eyes shut so that he wouldn't see her tears, but much to her dismay, a lone droplet escaped out of a corner and tracked down her cheek.

"You're calling yourself  _my_  woman?" he asked, sounding a little awed.

Appalled at her slip, Gisla remained silent, her humiliation complete.

"Gisla," Rollo breathed and her eyes popped open, astonished to realise that it was the first time he'd ever referred to her by her Christian name. Usually, it was  _Princess_. His green eyes were warm and heart wrenchingly tender as they gazed down at her. "I was never planning to leave you behind. You are my wife and Paris was once your home. If there are decisions to be made, we will do so together, like we've done everything else."

His words, sweeter and more treasured than any poet's verse, curled around the edges of her heart and clawed its way inside. A sob escaped her throat and Rollo pulled her towards him, burying her face against his heart as he murmured soothing words in comfort.

What was happening to her? Gisla wondered, clinging to her husband's broad shoulders as she cried against his chest. Ever since they'd reached Normandy and started spending more time together, she'd slowly begun to see Rollo as less of a savage and more of a man. More man than anyone she'd ever known, she realised.

The fact that she didn't hate him confused her, worried her, scared her. She knew she was meant to despise him and yet as the weeks progressed she found herself hating him less and growing to admire him more. He could be fearsome and ruthless, certainly and deep down it pleased her to know that his reputation as a mighty warrior had not been exaggerated. But she'd also witnessed his care, his consideration, his kindness. She hadn't been expecting to see that side of him and the times she'd felt the most perplexed had been when those sentiments were directed towards her.

Like bands of steel, Gisla felt his arms tighten marginally around her. Remarkably, she didn't feel trapped. In fact, she felt safer than she ever had before. All too easily she imagined staying within his comforting embrace forever, revelling in his strength and protection. That thought, more disturbing than any other, frightened her enough to make her pull back.

Their eyes met. His were filled with concern and—. She swallowed. Was that  _love?_  She felt a moment's panic and pushed at his chest in an attempt to get away.

"Don't," Rollo said softly, holding onto her.

"Please!" she cried, not knowing whether she was asking him to let her go or hold her tighter. She hated the way her feelings for him were tearing at her insides.

"I won't hurt you," he promised, his hands stroking over her hair in much the same way he'd been taming the horse when she'd first entered.

Exhaling sharply, she stopped fighting him, suddenly exhausted. His palms cupped her cheeks and her gaze was arrested by the heat in his, the longing so openly displayed. It called to a similar emotion within her, one she'd been trying to subdue for weeks but felt too tired to keep suppressing.

Rollo stepped closer and Gisla swayed against him, her hands curling into the soft fur of his cloak. Her breath suspended when she realised his intention, her heart beating so fast she wondered if he could hear it. Slowly his lips lowered until they brushed against hers, whisper soft and light as a feather, testing, teasing. He didn't attempt to overpower her, leaving her with enough room to retreat if she wished to. But she didn't. The warmth of his breath and the prickle of his beard ignited her senses, gently coaxing a response from her. Gisla sighed, wanting more. Pushing closer, she stepped onto her toes, pressing her torso against his, running her palms up his chest and around his neck until her fingers linked at the base of his skull. He groaned at her response, gathering her firmly against his body before his mouth finally claimed hers in a searing, possessive kiss.

She gasped at his ardour, the action allowing his tongue to slip between the folds of her lips, the deed both shocking and thrilling all at once. Tentatively she brushed her own tongue against his, emboldened when she heard his harshly indrawn breath, a clear sign of his approval.

Gisla couldn't remember ever feeling this way, so desperate to get closer to another human being, so ready to surrender to the will of another. Her body was on fire, the heat so intense she felt as though she was melting from the inside out. Her knees were weak, her skin crawling with delicious tingles. Their tongues duelled and tangled together as an unfamiliar, desperate hunger exploded within her. Rollo's lips were cool and firm against hers, but inside he tasted of wine, heady and intoxicating. When his hands trailed down the sides of her breasts, her head spun.

"Rol—! Forgive me, Your Highness, Your Grace!" The words, filled with shocked embarrassment pulled Gisla back to the present. Shoving away from Rollo, she whirled around in time to see the Wanderer scamper back into the shadows.

Sanity returning fast, she hastily stepped away from her husband. What was she doing? Her lips felt swollen, branded. She furtively glanced at the large Viking before her and felt her breath hitch at the back of her throat at the intensity of his stare. Face flushed, she turned away from him. If the Wanderer hadn't interrupted— Instead of being disgusted at the notion of what might have occurred between them, Gisla found herself feeling oddly disappointed to have been disturbed. Panicked, she headed for the exit. She needed to get away from him.

"Wait!" Rollo called after her.

"I must go."

Ignoring his pleas to stay, Gisla ran from the stables as fast as her legs could carry her. She was afraid she'd done the one thing she'd never thought herself capable of: somewhere along the line she'd fallen in love with her husband.

* * *

Once Gisla accepted the truth of her feelings, she wasn't sure how to behave around Rollo. He'd tried talking to her about their kiss, but she kept brushing him off and after the third attempt had failed to illicit a response from her, he'd stopped trying.

All the while she tried to make sense of her feelings for a man who'd been the cause of so much hate and anger and yet, after the past three months together, he'd also been the source of so much more: her freedom, her independence, her agency. All of which Gisla had thought she had until she met him and realised that what she'd accepted as freedom had merely been a gilded cage designed to slowly drain the life from her.

Her father had told her that he loved her and as a result of his own failings as a leader, he'd betrayed her. Count Odo had professed his love and devotion multiple times over a span of years and yet he'd done nothing to stop her from being sold off to strangers.

But Rollo, a man she'd once thought of as nothing more than a filthy pagan, had been the only one who'd never lied to her, who'd never let her down. Every promise he'd made, he'd kept. That was more than she could say for anyone else in her life.

Entering their bedchamber after a few hours of prayer in the newly completed chapel, Gisla found Rollo inside removing his heavy coat and leather armour. The fire in the hearth had been lit hours before and as a result the room was wonderfully warm. When she crossed the threshold, he glanced at her, those perceptive eyes running over her from top to toe before glancing away without saying a word. Flustered, she watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the smooth skin of his back. He really was beautifully formed, she thought, eyeing him covertly.

"I've been waiting for your return," he said, removing his boots and placing them neatly beside the bed.

She stepped further into the room. "You have?"

He nodded, moving towards the table on the far side of the bedchamber. It was then that she noticed the long, flat wooden box resting on the surface. Curious, she watched as he lifted the box and brought it towards her. "For you," he said.

Startled, she merely stared at the offering. "What is it?" she asked, raising her eyes to his.

Rollo's lips twitched. "Why don't you open it and see?"

Tentatively Gisla reached forward and lifted the lid. Inside was a swath of fabric which she slowly parted. Pulling back the last piece of white linen, she gasped. Bared to her gaze was a metal sword; double edged and about the length of her arm, it tapered slightly towards the rounded edge. On the pommel and crossguard were intricately designed inlays of silver and copper, a clear sign of expense and expert craftsmanship.

"Is this for me?" she breathed, her eyes wide with wonder.

"I don't see anyone else in the room," Rollo teased.

Gisla glanced at him. She couldn't believe he'd had a sword made especially for her. Up until now she'd been using the one he'd brought with him the first morning they'd started training together. While she had wondered, on occasion, what it would be like to have her very own, she'd never imagined—. It was honestly the most precious gift she'd ever received.

In that moment, something inside of her finally settled into place. Gisla had once mocked Rollo for speaking of destiny and yet she suddenly knew with a certainty that she couldn't explain, that he was hers. Perhaps it was God finally giving her the answers she was looking for, but staring down at her precious gift, she knew with no lingering doubts that her fate was intricately entwined with the man before her.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she said, meaning it. "How did you know that I wanted one of my own?"

He shrugged a little self-consciously and Gisla's heart turned over. "Every warrior should have their own sword. You've earned yours."

Gisla ran the tips of her fingers against the cool blade, her throat suddenly clogged with emotion. It was perfect.

_I not want…to force…. When you ready…._

On their wedding night she'd called him a fool for uttering those words. A lot had changed since then.

"Thank you," she said, trying to control the wobble in her voice. Reaching for the box and took it from him, moving to place it back on the table.

"Are you not going to test it?" her husband asked.

She shook her head. "Not right now. Tomorrow."

Frowning at her, he cocked his head to the side. "Are you not satisfied with it? If you would like some changes made—"

"Rollo," she said softly, cutting off his words. She was done fighting the inevitable. She wanted this man. She loved him. Their marriage had been blessed before God and the church. She was no longer ashamed of her feelings.

"Yes?" With his chest to the fire, the light flickered off his muscled frame, bathing his body in a warm glow.

When their eyes met, Gisla hid nothing from him. She let him see her desire, her gratitude, her love.

His sharp intake of breath told her he understood. "Gisla—"

"I'm ready," she whispered.

His eyes widened, his body going rigid. She held her breath as she watched him, waiting. Then she saw it - the softening around the edges of his eyes, the way his lips curled into a beauteous smile. Her heart hammered. Whatever had possessed her to think of Rollo as anything other than absurdly handsome?

He stepped closer. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she replied with conviction.

"Why?" So he wanted her to say it?

"You know why," she hedged, squirming under the intensity of his scrutiny.

"Why?" he repeated stubbornly.

She gathered all her courage. "Because I love you."

"Thank God," he growled before his lips captured hers in a scorching kiss. His response left Gisla in no doubt that he wanted her, that he  _loved_  her. Raising her arms, she wrapped them around his neck, her fingers sliding into the softness of his hair. His lips plundered hers, his tongue sinking into her mouth to bestow a kiss so audacious, so erotic, she thought she might melt from the heat of it. But oh, it was glorious. All the while, sensation upon delicious sensation swelled inside of her as Rollo spread his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her into his arms as though she weighed no more than a feather.

He carried her to their bed and placed her on her feet before it. Lifting the hem of her dress, he dragged it up and over her head, discarding it in a forgotten heap at their feet. Gisla knew she ought to feel self-conscious, to make some attempt at covering herself, but she'd never been timid and she wasn't about to start now. Also, if the adoring look on Rollo's face was anything to go by, he had no complaints.

Lifting her again, he laid her down on the bed, his body following in hot pursuit. After his initial ardour subsided, Rollo slowed his pace, taking his time to explore every nook and cranny of her body. He was all confidence and bold demands and Gisla was more than prepared to meet him halfway. She couldn't be certain that come morning she wouldn't be mortified by some of the liberties she was allowing him, but at that moment, the pleasure he was giving her far outweighed any of her sensibilities.

When their bodies eventually came together, the pain was unavoidable. She'd known it was inevitable when she'd gazed upon his naked form bearing down upon her, but like every challenge she'd ever faced, Gisla welcomed it, determined to conquer it. Her husband, a considerate lover, ensured that her discomfort was of short duration. Not long after the final sting of pain faded to a distant memory, she was inundated by a surge of pleasure so potent, so intense that it rolled over her in continuous waves, robbing her of breath, of conscious thought.

When Rollo moaned his satisfaction into her ear, spilling his seed deep within her womb, Gisla held onto him tightly. Eventually he rolled them over until she lay sprawled across his massive chest.

"Rollo?" she asked some time later, snuggling against his warmth.

"Hmmm?"

"Why did you ask my father to wait six weeks before we married?"

He was trailing a hand down her back, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. "I wanted us to be able to talk, no matter how crudely, before the ceremony. Also," he chuckled softly, "I had hoped that time might soften your affections."

Gisla laughed, remembering the murderous thoughts she'd on their wedding day. Resting her chin on her hands, she gazed up at him. "It has."

His eyes darkened and heat crept into her cheeks as she recognised the signs of his desire. Her own body, so recently awakened to the pleasures of the flesh, responded in kind. Rolling them over, Rollo trapped her beneath him, the caress of his lips on hers leaving her breathless. Already his hands were skimming down her body - her neck, her breasts, the tops of her thighs, lower – igniting the flames of passion between them.

A long time later, Gisla smiled contentedly. Who would have guessed that a headstrong princess, once in possession of nothing more than her intellect, her courage and her belief in God, was well on her way to becoming a shield maiden? Of course she was nowhere near ready for battle, but someday she would be and Rollo had made it all possible. She owed so much to him. He'd ensured that she became more than just a princess. She was a wife, a joint ruler, a powerful woman in her own right with a voice that was heard, with opinions that mattered.

They still had much to learn about one another and there was a lot she was certain she would never understand about him, but for the moment, none of it mattered. They had a lifetime to quarrel and make up and quarrel some more. The thought made her smile.

Perhaps, she hoped fervently, there might even be children.

Burrowing close to her husband's side, Gisla closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer to God. It would seem that he'd known best after all.


End file.
